Page 62 of Wade’s Wrath

“I said fine,” she said.

“Say you're staying, Harlow,” he ordered.

Harlow glared at him. “I'm staying.”

“Thank you,” he breathed.

“Bossy asshole,” she spat.

“Pain in my ass,” he whispered. Then he did something she wasn't expecting. He kissed her forehead. One quick press of his lips, and Harlow froze. So did Wade. His eyes met hers, and for once, he looked surprised by his own actions. His expression hardened as if daring her to say something, but she didn't, mostly because her brain had stopped working.

Wade stepped back. “Lock the door behind us.” He walked away, and Harlow stood there staring after him. What the hell had just happened? She touched her forehead. It still felt warm where his lips had been.

One of the prospects walked past. “You okay?”

“No,” she breathed. He stopped and looked her over, but wisely kept walking, muttering something about Wade and his crazy woman. She wasn’t his woman—yet, but she was beginning to believe that it was inevitable. The question was, would he finally make good on his promise to kiss her, because it was all she could think about now.

Waiting was worse than Harlow remembered. Two hours—two fucking hours they had been gone. She'd reorganized part of the clubhouse kitchen. Made coffee. Cleaned something that probably hadn't been cleaned since the building was constructed. Checked the clock approximately six hundred times, and tried not to think about Wade, but failed miserably.

Her phone was gone, and she had no way to call him, and no way to check where they were. She had no way to know whether something had gone wrong. Every motorcycle engine outside made her jump. Every time the clubhouse door opened, her heart stopped, but none of them were Wade.

Eventually, Harlow gave up pretending she wasn't worried and sat at the bar with her third cup of coffee. A woman had come in shortly after the men left. Her name was Princess, and she was Butcher's woman. Harlow had met her briefly before, but tonight Princess had arrived carrying a bag of food, and enough attitude to make Harlow immediately understand how she'd survived being involved with the Savage Bastards.

Princess slid onto the stool beside her. “If you drink one more cup of coffee, you're going to vibrate out of that chair,” she warned.

Harlow looked down at her bouncing knee. “Sorry.”

“Don't apologize to me. I’m just pointing out how annoying it is.” Harlow looked over at her, and Princess smiled. “I’m kidding.”

“Oh,” Harlow breathed.

“Mostly,” Princess quickly added.

Harlow laughed softly. She liked her. “Does this get easier?”

“Does what get easier?” Princess asked.

“Waiting for them to come back,” Harlow said.

Princess considered the question. “No.” Great. “You just get better at hiding how much you hate it, too.”

Harlow looked toward the door. “They shouldn't be doing this because of me.”

Princess snorted. “They aren't.”

Harlow frowned. “What do you mean?”

“They're doing it because someone is hurting women,” Princess said.

“But they wouldn't know about it if I hadn't shown up at Wade’s bar,” Harlow explained.

“Exactly.” Harlow stared at her coffee, and Princess leaned an elbow against the bar. “You think that's a bad thing?”

“I don't know,” Harlow admitted.

“You found out something horrible, you ran, and you told someone,” Princess said.

“I didn't exactly plan it,” Harlow insisted.